The debbils in my nerves The debbil's in my brain The debbil's in my muscles And he's causing me pain. The debbil's in my shoulders And in my aching back The debbil's in my myelin sheathing And my sacroiliac!

MOM! I just heard Ben and Jerry of Ben and Jerry's ice cream speak at my campus! And they gave us all ice cream bars afterward! Whoo hoo! (Boy, was the timing of this talk ever perfect, with the Occupy Wall Street stuff going on.)

Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine ownself be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Ice-creak-speak is a dizzying tongue ANd only spoken by the young It rules the minds of kids who get it Until they're twelve, when they forget it! But young ones know, when feeling weak The answer lies in ice-cream speak!

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Tho' we know too well that Dust prevail; Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer and--sans Email! --Homer Caimen, The Ruby Yacht and the Emerald City, strophe 165, (Beg Dad: Tumor, Calor, Rubor and Dolor Publishing, 1312 CE.)

Ah woe, 'tis woe, when each line faire Must always come here from elsewhere; When deep reflections are in droughth Except from some else's mouth And we'll not ring the champions bells For thoughts that come from someone else!

Do you deny that every single word you have ever used to post ANYWHERE on Mudcat (and elsewhere) wasn't plagiarized, lifted and used without proper citation and attribution, from not one, but several, dictionaries? (Merriam Webster New Collegiate Dictionary, p. 1 et seq.)

Then there came the hero Amos Red his rod and red his ringlets Dripping downward hiding fright-face Hiding hideous halfling haunted Gripping grimly a Gibson guitar Quite at ready to marinate Martins. This was Amos who fought the sea-mares Fought the whale-fish fought the monster Grendel's son hight Junior Grendel Left him there sword-slashed and axe-cleaved Long his mother weeped o'er "Junie" Long her eyes shed drops of salt-water Until the Ocean rose itself up Left its banks its meets and bounds Leaving longships high on hillocks Leaving longships moored on mountains Heroes gon a-viking stranded 'til succumbed they to the sea. Loud the weeping women mourned mourned for men who'd come no more Loud the keening of the kinder kith and kin killed by the waves. Loud the cursing of dark Hela adding rooms to her abode For but few Valhalla-choosen far but few heroes lived then But for Amos him the hero who had caused this awful slaughter Who had brought down Hela's wrath her dark wrath up his head She then cursed his Gibson guitar her curse upon his fingers ten Cursed to play a cursed Martin or a cursed Apollonio Cursed to play a Walmart Special left him cried forever more.

I tune in almost every day here to watch the epic battles of those mighty heroes of legend and lore, the Anomalous Amos and the Raging Rapparee, swinging their vorpal blades wildly 'midst roiling clouds of dust and purple prose as the beasts of the field flee in terror all around them and the very Gods above lift a scandalize eyebrow in wonder at the passion and folly of mortal man in the grip of his untrammeled ego.

Left my vorpal blade out in the rain, And it rusted 'til I can't use it again And I don't think I can take it 'Cause it took so long to make it And the Elvin smith won't work for me agaiiin! Oh, noooooooo!

The gods decree the man who battles, Takes his stand and roars and rattles, Takes what he has and stands for truth, Fights on for justice, gilt and sooth, Shall be rewarded life composed Full free of ruth, and warm of toes And by his heart-full use of Self Shall gain composure, and good pelf. While he who far from struggle bends And to assert his truth forfends, Shall slowly --as he condescends -- Succumb to spiritual bends And like some sanctimonious Hessian Be all undone by decompression, And on the heights, shall fall in flight, Because, when low, he would not fight.

There's a rare cold snap blowing through my SOtuhern California town, with gray skies and rattling branches, and a dank chill to it all which I am ill equipped to survive. I suffer, and wish for summer again. I am even wearing a sweater. But to no avail!! I am wearing my wooly bedroom slippers, tyoo!! But nothing works!!

Then in my fit of chilled shivers I remember Eiseley, whose patient fingers made me a pair of beautiful warm green woolie socks for my footsies. I hasten to my old bureau and dig them out, and put them on!!! Ahh, relief!! Warmth!! The chills subside and I can think clearly once more.

So today I am grateful to our own Ms. Eiseley whose perspicacity and wit are matched only by her dexterity and generosity of soul.

Last night we had Alice to dinner; Alice is 78 years old and leathery as a working bridle, with bright black eyes that are always laughing. She is bright of soul, having been through six hells in her many years. She is a wrangler and a rider and a lover of beaten dogs and good horses.

I served a nice dinner of brown rice with vegetables and nuts, broiled bison flank steak, red wine and salad.

It was nice sipping wine and talking to Alice. I sang her "Buffalo Skinners" and we talked about all sorts of things. Then she went home and we washed all the dishes so we would not have to deal with them in the morning.

It was the abandoned son, Hargrove, whose mother, an ill-starred minor actress, had to confess to him that she and Henry had once over-indulged in rare liqueurs over one long and well-forgotten weekend. She looked at her growing son sadly and told him, "Absinthe made thee, Hargrove Fonda."

MOM, looks like all of the sibs have flown the coop, but I'm still here to help you up. Have some tea, and a slice of fresh banana bread. And here is a cup of Tiddlywinks LH left behind. Let's test fire these little suckers. No, don't worry where they land, LH will pick them up.

We shall loose, but we shall miss him, Tho' we've practiced everywhere. We do our best to try to hit him, But our arrows hit but air. When a year ago we gathered Life was in his pale blue eye Now the apple's not yet scattered And our marksmanship a lie.

It's dead on the mark, and I'm not just shooting the bull here. If you doubt me, Tell old Bill. Not his son, he's just a fletching, but have someone point out the man himself, nock on his door, and ask him straight. He won't string you along.

We wuz 42 seven and ninety some On the way to Forty-three. And the wind blew high, and the wind blew low, And it boiled up a follerin' sea. As we trimmed our sheets, and froze our feet On the way to Forty three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load Such merry souls were we, As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones, On the way to Forty-Three!

We was short of hands, and wuz far from land Not a beachhead could we see, And the rollers came on every hand In a dark and wind-torn sea. But we never blinked, nor slept a wink, We was bold as bold could be, On the way to Forty Three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load Such merry souls were we, As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones, On the way to Forty-Three!

Oh, the lee rail drowned in the whistling sound Of the foam caps blowing free, And the cold sea roamed by the hatches coam, And the bilges smelled like pee. But the hands were stout, and they all turned out, When the bosun's pipe sang wee, God bless us all, on that cannon ball, Making way for Forty Three!

On the long sea road, with a BS load Such merry souls were we, As the main yards groaned midst the holy stones, On the way to Forty-Three!

Were my arm not damaged I would have been there, as you well know. It prevented (and still prevents) me from playing accordion and banjo, both singly or simultaneously. It has all but ruined my musical career. I doubt that I shall ever again rise to the heights of, say, Joseph Pujol or Pat Patterson. Yet you mock my disability! Fie and shame upon you, sirrah!